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Robin Hood is the Prince of Thieves (robinofthehood) wrote in wariscoming,

Robin tensed at the sound of the voice, hand dropping to the dagger that hung from his belt, drawing it before he'd even thought about it. It was testament to how lost in his thoughts he was that he hadn't been aware anyone else was on the roof until they spoke. It took him a moment to register just who the voice belonged to, which was around the same time his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognised who it was by sight. He let out a slow breath, lowering his hand back to his side and sliding the dagger back in to its scabbard. "Peter," he returned in recognition, wondering how long his friend had been up here, and if he'd heard him speak his pitiful questions in to the darkness. "Are you okay?" He questioned instead. It was often that his friend came up here with good reason, usually to drink, and often to drink away any number of sorrows.

Realistically he knew he should just leave. Go back downstairs and climb in to bed and let Marian hold him until the nightmares that plagued him were chased away. But he couldn't. He knew it was ridiculous but he felt if he was inside right now he wouldn't be able to breathe. Sometimes he really missed the forest. For all that he had missed Locksley when he had been living in Sherwood, there was a lot to be said for the limitless sky above you, the cool air on your skin, and nothing but the sound of the night around you as you let sleep take you.

It wasn't as though he was the only one who had lost something, recently. Sherwood wasn't the only thing a demon had seen fit to destroy. And Kon and Clark, others too, were putting in huge amounts of effort to save an endless number of people. What right did he truly have to feel this level of sorrow at losing something he could hardly lay a claim to anyway? Over 800 years had passed since his time, since he had lived there. In peoples minds these days he was a legend, to most nothing more than a myth, someone who's existence they questioned. What he thought had little impact here or anywhere else, any more.

He turned so his back was to the wall, leaning against it as he considered the man now standing near him. There was every chance Peter would simply want to be alone. Why else would he have come to the roof this time of night? The last thing he needed were jumpy outlaws turning daggers on him, literally or otherwise.